"Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, / Now sinks at last or feebly mans the soul; / While low delights, succeeding fast behind, / In happier meanness occupy the mind: / As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, / Defaced by time and tottering in decay, / There in the ruin, heedless...

Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, / That first excites desire and then supplies; / Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, / To fill the languid pause with finer joy; / Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, / Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame."

"But while this softer art their bliss supplies, / It gives their follies also room to rise; / For praise too dearly loved or warmly sought / Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; / And the weak soul, within itself unblest, / Leans for all pleasure on another's breast."